


Bound

by DancingInTheDark85



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship, Gen, Season/Series 03, mostly canon-compliant, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:00:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29607048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingInTheDark85/pseuds/DancingInTheDark85
Summary: Post season 3.As the battle draws to a close, Uhtred returns to the field to find one of his worst nightmares unfolding. His best friend is injured and his recovery will be hard on all of them.AKA Finan is a BAMF and Uhtred is a secret softie. No slash, just brotherly bonds, but if you want to read more into it then who am I to stop you?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Bound

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve binged this show all at once and am now bereft and turning to fan fiction. Any mistakes are my own, and likely because so much happens in each episode it’s hard to keep track, but if you point it out I’ll do my best to change it if I can. Also, I named the horses. I don’t know if they have names in the books, but if they do and it bothers you, let me know.
> 
> Enjoy.

Finan crouched in the dirt beside Uhtred as they watched the procession of warriors march through the woods. The last time they’d gone to battle the snow had been freezing them to the bone and there had been twenty of them against a whole army, not knowing whether Alfred would arrive. Finan had been sure they were entering a slaughter. What a difference it made to have the army of Wessex at their back! Of course, death could come to any of them at any time, but today Finan felt sure of their victory. And it had been a long time since he could honestly say that.

He had to admit, he’d grown to love this life. It had been an adjustment, going from everything to nothing and now he was somewhere undefinably in between. He had very little more than what he could carry on him, and most of the silver he earned was spent quickly on women and ale, but there was a freedom to it, which he’d not had in either past life, and the rush of battle was like no other.

Uhtred glanced his way and cocked his head. The man needed no confirmation to act, but it was nice to know that the older man respected his judgement enough to ask. Finan had not spoken of his past much to anyone, not even Uhtred, he was content these days to follow, but he had commanded men once too and occasionally it was nice to be reminded of that. He gave a nod back, and they jumped to their feet.

Finan shouldered his shield and unsheathed his sword, beside him the Baby Monk and Sihtric and then the whole of Edward’s army did the same. The blood started coursing through his veins with anticipation and when Uhtred gave the signal, he let out a roar as he raced down the bank and shattered a shield with a kick, bring his sword down to draw first blood. Let it never be said that Finan of Irland was not the boldest of warriors!

The battle raged around them, but they had the element of surprise and Finan for his part had cut down five men before they even had the chance to draw their swords. Uhtred was up ahead of him, as violent ever but the chaos soon engulfed him and he lost track of his Lord. He continued to swing his blade as he looked for Osferth. While the Baby Monk had come along in leaps and bounds lately, he still felt responsible for him. He and Sihtric had made a secret pact to watch over the boy, to protect him without his knowledge. Today it looked like he needed no help, giving Finan a burst of pride, but he cut down a man coming towards him nonetheless.

Sihtric would say it was the gods, Uhtred would say it was their skill, Osferth would likely attribute his prayers but Finan knew it was their brotherhood that kept them alive. He saw a man carrying a huge axe launch himself at Sihtric but it was the Baby Monk that chopped him down. When Finan was dealt a bone-jarring blow, it was Uhtred that pulled him back out of the mud.

But Finan felt himself being driven further away from his pack with each blow his shield took and then he saw a flash of blue and Uhtred give chase. His instinct was to go help him brother, but he had a responsibility to the two other men at his back. He turned back around and saw they had been driven away from him. He watched Baby Monk’s head disappear beneath the throng of fighters and he let out a yell and tried to force his way towards them.

He didn’t make it. A sword smashed against his shoulders and drove him to his knees. A shield was driven into his face and then he was on the ground, staring up at a huge man carrying a sword in one hand and a war hammer in the other. Finan swung his sword but the man bashed it with his war hammer and the blow travelled all the way up Finan’s arm and the weapon fell from his numbed grip. Finan pulled his seax from his belt with his left hand and stabbed up, burying the blade in the top of his inner thigh. 

He crawled away and twisted into his hands and knees, snatching up his sword as he made to stand but then there was a huge clang of metal on metal and a sword was driven straight through his chain mail and into his shoulder. Finan collapsed to the floor and then there was a smash of metal again and the blade was driven deeper and deeper until the sword had been hammered in like a nail, pinning him to the ground. 

Each blow was agony, though by the forth one they were weaker. The huge man made one last effort, barely achieving more than just reverberating shockwaves of pain through Finan’s back, before he collapsed from the knife wound Finan had dealt to his femoral artery. He landed on top of Finan, forcing him yet further into the dirt.

Finan tried to get his right hand (his left was now useless) beneath his body to prise himself off the ground, but the limb trembled with the barest of efforts and as he pushed, black dots danced in front of his vision and all his strength escaped him. He tried to see the others, but all he had vision of was a myriad of unidentifiable boots as the warriors around him slipped and trampled in the mud. He hoped the other’s wouldn’t find him until it was over. He’d be a distraction for them and he couldn’t bear that. He closed his eyes and started to pray, not for himself, he hadn’t prayed for himself since those early days on the slave ship, but for his men “please, keep them safe, Lord, please do what I no longer can.” Someone tripped over him then, tearing his body sideways against the sword that pinned him and the pain of it spun him into darkness.

*  
By the time Uhtred returned to the battle, it was almost over. Battles, when you’re in them, can seem to last forever, but he had only been gone for less than ten minutes but in that time the tide hand already turned and the Danes were starting to retreat. 

He came down onto the field, where the last few Danes fought, more concerned with Valhalla than with living to fight another day. He stabbed his sword through the back of a Dane who was beating back one of Edward’s exhausted soldiers. The soldier muttered his thanks but Uhtred gave him a brief tense smile and moved on. He had released Ragnar from Niflheim and it was a weight that he’d been carrying a long time, but he couldn’t rest until he had found his men.

He found Sihtric first, his hair making it easier to identify him even when everyone was covered in mud. He jogged down to meet him and as he did, Osferth stood up from where he had been kneeling over the body of someone. Uhtred’s heart leapt into his throat but the body was too short, the armour all wrong, he didn’t know the man.

“Oh thank the Lord,” Osferth said as Uhtred came towards them. They clapped each other into a tight hug and then Sihtric was there waiting for a hug too. “We thought we’d lost you too.”

That caused Uhtred to panic, he could feel his heart beating faster and he spun round back searching across the battlefield. His emotions were too close to the surface so soon after having released Ragnar, he could feel his eyes start to well. “Where’s Finan?”

“We can’t find him,” Osferth admitted. 

Uhtred felt frantic, he started rushing from body to body, turning each one over in turn just to make sure. He found a man with dark hair and so muddy and bloodied it was hard to distinguish him by his face or armour. He wiped a hand down over the man’s face to reveal his features, he was older than Finan, and less scarred, the beard not full enough. He closed the man’s eyes for him and moved on.

And then he saw him and he wondered how he could ever mistake anyone else for his friend. Finan was half-hidden under a huge brute of a Dane, face down in the mud, a sword driven right through his back.

“Finan!” Uhtred rushed to his side and collapsed to his knees beside him. He reached out a shaking hand and brushed some hair from the man’s forehead, his skin was still warm against Uhtred’s cold fingers. Not just warm, he realised, hot and slicked with sweat, sweat that had not yet had chance to cool.

“Finan!” Uhtred whispered, “you stubborn bastard, hold on we’ve got you.”

He tried to shove the great Dane off him, careful not to jostle the sword. He was too heavy for him, but suddenly Osferth and Sihtric were there with him and the three of them managed it. “He’s still alive,” Uhtred whispered, “he’s still alive!”

Osferth inspected the wound, his fingers searching beneath his shoulder to see just how far the sword was embedded, although it was clear from how close to the hilt it was that it was deep, pinning him right into the earth. 

“We need to build a fire,” Sihtric said. “When we remove the blade the wound will need cauterising.”

Uhtred nodded, grateful that the two younger men had taken command, he didn’t think he was capable of it. He knelt beside Finan and continued to stroke back his hair, while Sihtric built a fire and Osferth shucked his armour and tore his tunic into strips for bandages. Once the fire was going, Uhtred released his knife from its sheath and settled it into the fire allowing the flames to lick at the blade until it glowed red hot.

“Hold him,” Sihtric said as he gripped the hilt of the sword. Uhtred laid his hands on the Irishman’s shoulders and held him as firmly as he could. Osferth laid his weight across the man’s broad back.

“On three: one, two,...” as Sihtric pulled the sword out with a spray of blood, Finan let out a roar of pain and bucked against the men holding him down, but their grip held firm.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Uhtred muttered, pressing his forehead to Finan’s as the Irishman struggled against the pain.

“Quick, get his armour off,” Osferth said and they hurriedly pulled at the leather and chain mail, causing Finan to scream again as his arm was pulled up to remove his sleeve. Uhtred pulled him into a sitting position, tucking his friend’s head onto his shoulder and exposing his back to Osferth’s heated knife. They’d all seen each other naked before, modesty was rarely something soldiers concerned themselves with, but Uhtred had always avoided looking at Finan’s back, he reminded him so closely of his own. He made himself see it now, memorised every scar of the slaver’s whip, reminding him that Finan had been enduring it well before Uhtred himself had been made a slave. Finan had so many more scars than he did, that sharp tongue and wilful defiance had obviously cost him much. Uhtred had felt truly broken after his time in Islond, while Finan had seemed to maintain his spirit, it was easy to forget the man had survived a whole year longer than he had. 

Osferth hesitated with the knife, while Finan shuddered into Uhtred’s embrace. But the blood was flowing freely down his back and there was too much to stem any other way. He pressed the blade to the torn flesh, causing a muffled scream from Finan as he buried his head into Uhtred’s neck. The smell of charred meat and the sizzling of flesh and muscle burning beneath the blade made Uhtred feel sick. Finan was left gasping for breath as he tried to control the pain, his chest heaving against Uthred as the older man held him tightly.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Uhtred mumbled into his hair.

“Get him on his back,” Osferth said once he was happy he’d sealed the first wound, the knife going back into the fire to reheat.

Sihtric helped Uhtred turn the man over until Finan was resting in his lap. It was worse when they could see his face, his eyes glassy and pain etched into his brow. Uhtred wasn’t sure he was registering much beyond the pain, but he made sure they were face to face so that the wounded man had something to focus on. Finan had done the same for him the first time he’d had to endure a slaver’s punishment, while Halig had been unable to watch, Finan had held his gaze and had not wavered throughout, urging him to stay strong with only his eyes and a look of determination. He’d done it for all the other slaves, and Uhtred was just now realising how much the other man had given of himself so that they all might endure together.

Finan was doing a good job of keeping eye contact until Osferth picked the knife back up and then it was all he could look at.

Uhtred tapped his cheek, less than gently, “Don’t look at him, look at me. Look at me.”

Finan’s gaze drifted back to Uhtred’s but he’d shaken up Osferth too, and the young man’s hands started trembling worse than they were. He held the knife long enough that it was starting to cool and he had to put it back in the fire.

In the end it was Finan who gave him the final push, “Fucking do it, Baby Monk!” he hissed through gritted teeth and Osferth snatched up the blade and pressed it down hard into the skin as Finan had to bite back a howl. Eventually, the man went limp in Uhtred’s arms and they all breathed a sigh of relief.

“Quick, finish it up while he’s unconscious,” Sihtric urged and Osferth finished the seal and bandaged the blistered flesh front and back.

By the time they were done, night was starting to fall. Those that could, had limped their way back to Edward’s forward camp and carts had been sent out for those that could not. Now that they’d seen to Finan’s wounds, he was no longer the most urgent case, so Sihtric and Osferth helped load the carts with the rest of the injured while Uhtred sat with Finan’s head resting on his lap. It was fully dark by the time it was his turn for the cart, they loaded him up as gently as they could, alongside a man who had a bone-deep gash in his thigh, and another whose hand had been severed and cauterised in much the same way. Uhtred and his men traipsed after the cart, the closeness of their beds draining then of their strength. Osferth stumbled and Uhtred caught him, reminding him that not all the blood he was covered in was Finan’s.

“Almost there,” he smiled. “Then we’ll get some ale in you and you’ll be good as new.”

Uhtred and his men had set up their own camp on the outskirts of the main one. Unlike the rows upon rows of identical tents that made up Edward’s camp, they had five in a circle round their campfire; Uhtred and Finan shared one, Sihtric and Osferth had another and the remaining men shared the three larger tents. 

Ulfric, the youngest of their band already had the fire going and was reheating last night’s stew. Ale was being passed around and the last of the injured were being sown up and bandaged. Uhtred was relieved to see they were mostly all there, but a few faces were missing. He hoped they had gone to the healers tents and would return to them soon. The men that were left were exhausted though in good spirits but as the cart rolled up and as Finan was carried off it and into his tent, they fell silent.

They laid him down on the straw mattress that had been covered over with furs. The bruising around the wound was a deep black now and Uhtred worried their cauterisation hadn’t gone deep enough. He tucked a fur around him and then Uhtred settled in to sit beside him.

“Go get your wounds seen to and get some rest. I’ll sit with him tonight.” Uhtred offered. They nodded and left. 

Uhtred sat with his elbows on his knees and hung his head; exhausted, worried, guilty. His victory for Ragnar all but forgotten, he settled in for a long wait.

*  
Edward was exhausted and aching. It would have been tempting to stay in bed all day, but if he were to prove himself worthy of the name King he could not. He had eaten breakfast with his generals and then spent the morning touring the camp, faithful Steapa by his side. He had talked with them round their campfires, he had prayed with the wounded and spent an hour working with the healers while they washed and wrapped the men who had died in the night. It was more than anyone expected of any other King, Steapa had advised, but Edward knew he had to be better than any other King if he was to be accepted, and if he was going to live up to the reputation of his father.

It was mid afternoon when he happened on Uhtred’s camp. His men were sat round the fire talking quietly but Uhtred was nowhere to be seen. The men launched to their feet and then to their knees respectfully as they saw him approach, all expect the Danish boy with the half-shaven head. He stood in the back of the group, hands resting leisurely on the pommel of his sword.

“I hope you are all recovering well,” Edward said, gesturing for them to get up.

“And you Lord,” one of them said in reply. “You are unharmed, I hope?”

“Beginner’s luck,” he shrugged disparagingly. It was difficult not to be disparaging amongst these battle-hardened men, but something told him they would appreciate his honesty more than a boast of skill. “You fought bravely, all of you. Though I should not be surprised, the men of Uhtred have a reputation for good reason it seems. Where is he?”

“I’ll get him Lord,” the Danish boy said and ducked his head into the nearest tent. Edward realised how ridiculous it was he thought of the Dane as a boy, when he had to have ten years on him. It was the start of seeing himself as more than these men, something his mother would no doubt encourage, but he promised himself to stop.

Uhtred came of of the tent, shirtless and haggard, the Dane slipping beneath the dimly lit canvas in his stead. “Good afternoon, My Lord,” he greeted, grabbing a tunic and slipping it over his well muscled torso. Edward couldn’t help but notice the scars. 

“You look weary Uhtred, I hope you are not too badly wounded.”

“Just bruises My Lord, as I am sure you are bruised. You fought well.”

“I had a good teacher,” Edward said, reminded of the lessons that Uhtred had given him when he was but a boy still. “I came to thank you and your men. We’re it not for your sage advice more blood would have been spilt on both sides I am sure.”

Uhtred nodded, but looked too tired to really take it in. There was some mumbling from the tent, two low voices. The Dane seemed to be talking to someone, but Uhtred was ignoring it so Edward did his best to as well.

“I would like to extend an invitation for you and your men to return to Winchester with us. There will be a celebration of our victory and as it could not have been achieved without your aid, I would like...”

He was interrupted by a shout from the tent. Nay, hardly a shout but a roar; terror, pain and fury all mixed into one. Uhtred dove back into the tent and Edward followed, hand on the hilt of his sword, Steapa as always at his heels.

When he got beneath the canvas, it took a moment to adjust from the bright sunlight to the single candle that illuminated a simple straw bed. The figure in it was so deathly pale that Edward barely recognised Uhtred’s Irish friend. He thrashed against the furs, muttering something in a language that Edward did not know. Bandages covered a wound at his shoulder and though Edward had little experience in mortal wounds, the sickly stench as he entered the tent belied that it was infected.

The young Dane was crouched beside him, mopping his sweat-soaked head with a wet cloth, while Uhtred crouched on his other side, clasping his hand.

“We’re not there now. That life is done my friend,” he whispered.

The Dane handed the bowl of water and cloth to Uhtred and got to his feet. “My Lord,” he gestured to the door and Edward allowed himself to be guided out.

“Has he seen the healers?” Edward asked once they were back out in the daylight.

“We mend our own wounds,” the Dane said, Sihtric was his name, at last, he remembered. 

“Steapa, fetch my personal healer, tell him to make haste.”

Steapa looked conflicted, the young heir was not supposed to be alone somewhere so exposed.

“For heaven’s sake, I’m sure these fine men can mind me for five minutes.”

“Very well Lord,” Steapa nodded and hurried away. 

“Thank you Lord,” Sihtric said. 

“Uhtred cares for him very much,” Edward commented. 

There was more mumbling and moaning from inside the tent tempered by Uhtred’s soft shushes.

“It is not my story to tell, but they have endured much together. More than most.” Sihtric replied.

“Maybe one day, in better circumstances I might have that story,” Edward said, but the frown that crossed Sihtric’s face told him it would be better never to ask. He was learning slowly that some men had stories better left untold.

The muttering got louder and then another yell, “Don’t you fucking touch him!”

“Finan! I’m here, I’m fine. And Halig,...”Uhtred’s voice wavered, “Halig is already at peace. It’s over. I promise you it’s over.”

Edward felt the awkwardness creep up on him until it made him itch. “I’ll send the healer at once he confirmed.” He turned on his heel and hoped it didn’t look too much like he was running away. 

*  
“Pull! Pull! Faster, you curs!” 

Finan would have vomited if they’d eaten enough to line their stomachs. The waves churned, icy water splashed in his face and threatened to rip the oar from his blistered, shredded hands. The windswept coast of his homeland had always had the most miserable weather but this was a certain hell. He had not seen land in days, nor fresh water or food. They were getting further and further away from land and the men he was with were failing in their strength. He had been waiting for the opportune moment, calmer seas, or a convenient distraction but it was getting to be now or never, and so the next time the man cracked his whip over some struggling man’s shoulders, it was all the provocation Finan needed to tear his oar from its port and swing it with everything he had at the head of the slave master. 

The oar collided with the man’s face and shattered his jaw. He tipped forward and almost capsized the boat, would have, if he hadn’t been grabbed by two more slaves and thrown overboard.

“Fight, ya bastards!” he roared to his fellow slaves, and swung his oar at the next man to come close to him, but he was hampered by the manacles around his ankles and wrists, allowing him to go no further than his berth. The man beside him tried valiantly to raise an oar with him, but he was so worn out from rowing that he could barely lift it. The mutiny was over in seconds when one of the vikingr grabbed the nearest slave and slit his throat before tipping him overboard. 

He reached forward and grabbed the next one too, “These deaths are on your hands big man!” He slit the next man’s throat, but not before he’d had the chance to scream. “I’ll keep going until you’re the only one left and you can row us to Islond all by yourself!”

Finan stopped, defeated already. He laid the oar down and the vikingr strode forward and fitted it back into the oarport before shoving Finan back down in his seat. He picked up the whip that had been dropped by the dead slave master and cracked it over Finan’s back with a viciousness that tore straight through the skin. 

Over and over he whipped him and all Finan could think of was he’d earned it for his foolishness, but then the slaver turned the whip on the next man, one who had made no attempt at insurrection at all! “No!”

“You are a crew now,” he explained calmly between cracks of the whip, “and what one does gets you all punished. It seems the only way you shall learn.”

“No! I’m sorry,” Finan begged like he’d never begged for anything in his life. “Punish me, not them. Not them!”

The beaten man looked up at him, and it was Uhtred. Uhtred, bloodied and desperate with a look of hate on his face the likes of which Finan had only seen reserved for Æthelwold. He cradled Halig already drowned and dead in his arms. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t place it. He looked around the boat and they were all men he knew, Osferth, Sihtric, Steapa, Beocca, even Ragnar was there, his bright eyes burning with hatred. He met Osferth’s disappointed gaze and then he was being whipped too, biting back cries of pain with each slash of the woven leather. This was not right, his mind screamed, this memory was from a different time, before he knew these men. And his father, for that’s who the slaver looked like now, his mouth contorted with malice, his father was long dead.

“Finan!” a familiar voice cut through the waves and the rain, “Finan, you’re here, with us now. The slave ship is no more.” A warm hand was placed on his chest, so hot that it felt like it would brand his clammy skin. He opened his eyes and saw Uhtred, but there was no more desperate hatred in his eyes, just concern. There was canvas overhead protecting them from the rain that hammered down outside, and some candles flickered beside his bed.

“Hey, you back with us now?” Osferth stepped into view behind Uhtred’s head.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, still not quite ready to let go of the dream.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Uhtred said, “do you think you can drink a little?” He held up a mug and then Osferth was bedside him, easing him up enough to get it to his lips. His lips were cracked and he drank greedily until his stomach churned and he had to stop. Being held up by the baby monk was humiliating, so he tried to prop himself up on his good elbow but the movement caused pain to tear through his back. He might’ve collapsed down hard on the bed, except his friends were there to ease him back slowly.

“Be gentle with yourself, you have suffered a nasty wound,” Uhtred admonished.

Finan looked down at his shoulder and the mass of bandages securing it. The neatness of the wrapping suggested they were fresh but were discoloured with pus seeping through already and the smell of death was coming from him. He tried to lift his left hand but it hung limply by his side. With concentration he could curl his fingers into a weak fist but that was all.

“Fear not,” Uhtred clasped his hand over Finan’s trembling fist. “It has only been a few days. It is too soon to be worrying about the strength of your shield arm.”

Finan nodded, it was a fair comment, and had it been any of them he would have said much the same, but then his foggy mind registered the hitch in Uhtred’s voice. They were not worried about him lifting a shield again, they were worried about him seeing the end of the week. Finan’s sword was right behind him, propped against the canvas, ready to be put into his hand in his last moments, a Danish superstition to ensure he reached Valhalla. Well shit!

He sank back against the bed, wondering if he should feel more upset about it. He wasn’t ready to go, but he’d accepted a long time ago that any battle might be his last and he’d fought more than most. Perhaps he should have been more pious, he was fairly certain he had not earned his way to heaven, maybe he’d get lucky and Valhalla would take him instead.

His eyes slid shut against their will and when he next opened them, time had passed. The candle was out and everything was quiet and dark. His first thought was that they had buried him already but as he adjusted to his surroundings he could hear the deep breathing of Uhtred and see the outline of his shoulders as he lay on the other side of the tent. He was glad to see they were all getting some sleep, perhaps that meant they were less worried about him, but then he realised his sword had been tucked into his hand, just in case. 

He realised quickly that he was desperate for a piss. He willed his body to ignore it, getting up seemed like far too much effort, but the feeling was not going to go away so with a monumental effort he rolled himself to his knees and staggered to his feet.

The night air felt fresh on his clammy skin and his bare feet in the grass was a welcome sensation. Two small tents was all that was left of what had been a huge camp. Edward’s army had left nothing but a churned, muddy field behind. Their leaving would have caused a racket, he was surprised he hadn’t noticed, or if he had, he’d forgotten it. He reached the tree line and leaned his good shoulder on the nearest one for support as he relieved himself into the undergrowth.

“Come to spy on me with my cock out?” he asked when he heard quiet footsteps behind him.

“I’ve come to make sure you don’t fall face first into your own piss,” Uhtred teased in retaliation.

“Aye, after all your efforts to ensure a noble death, it would be pretty embarrassing for me to die holding the wrong kind of sword.” He shook himself off and made himself presentable before turning to face his lord.

“Speaking of noble deaths, were you successful? Is Ragnar feasting with the gods at last?”

“He is,” Uhtred nodded. “Finan, I’m sorry. I left the field to pursue my own needs, if I hadn’t, I could have better watched your back.”

“And Ragnar would still be in hell and I might still have been wounded. Using pointy, stabby things on each other is kind of the point of a battle. You did what was right by your brother, and when the time comes I know you’ll do right by me too.”

“It nearly did,” Uhtred admitted. He ran a hand over his face to wipe off the visible relief he felt at such a lucky escape. “Osferth said Last Rites over you. I don’t know how your God would feel about you telling him to ‘fuck off’ about it though.”

Finan chuckled, “I don’t remember.”

“I’m glad. You’d be best not to remember the last few weeks.”

“Weeks? As in, more than one?” Finan asked, aghast. “And I’m only just taking a piss now?”

“You’ve been up and about before, it’s just been a while since you were this lucid. You’re a stubborn bastard, I’ll give you that.”

Finan nodded and looked down at his arm. After two weeks he’d hoped he would start to get some movement back in it, he could make a tighter fist than last time, but only marginally. It still hurt like he’d been driven through with molten steel, but it wasn’t the all encompassing pain he’d felt before. Still, despite two weeks of rest, he could feel his eyelids start to droop and his strength wane.

“For someone whose spent the best part of a fortnight sleeping, I’m still fucking tired,” he admitted.

“You’ve been fighting for your life, I wouldn’t call it restful.” Uhtred crossed his arms over his chest, giving him a look he had used with his children when explaining something that should have been obvious.

“The rest of the men?” They went back inside the tent and settled down on their respective bed rolls.

“We lost Gyric and Bordan. Cenhelm has been blinded in one eye, but will otherwise recover. They wanted to wait until you were through the worst of it, but I sent them back to Coccham a few days ago, they have families to return to, and Cenhelm will heal better in the care of his wife. It’s just the four of us left, like old times.”

“We should have gone with them, we’re vulnerable here,” Finan said. “There will be roving bandits and bitter warriors looking for spoils and stragglers.”

Uhtred nodded, knowing his words to be true. His eyes shone at the edges with emotion, but he did not doubt the decision he’d made. “To take you on that journey would have been cruel.”

“We should go tomorrow, Lord.”

Uhtred clasped his shoulder, “Are you sure? It’s a bumpy road back to Coccham.”

“I’m sure Lord.”

“Then you best get some more rest my friend.” Uhtred ushered him back under canvas. Finan laid back down with a sharp intake of breath. He took the water-skin that was offered, but he soon as his head hit the mattress he was gone.

*  
Sihtric had been so relieved when Uhtred told them over breakfast how improved Finan had seemed to be the night before. He tried not to be too disappointed when, by the time they had packed up their camp he had still not stirred.

“Finan,” Sihtric swept the canvas aside and crouched beside him. He looked to be in the throes of another nightmare, but that in itself was not unusual, the Irishman was often haunted by his memories, things he refused to talk about. He placed a hand on his good shoulder and the man shocked awake violently.

“It’s time to go, are you sure you’re feeling up to it?”

“Gimme a hand here,” Finan said, they clasped arms and Sihtric hauled him up. The Irishman had lost weight over the last few weeks but was putting little strength into getting up so it was still a struggle. He got him to his feet and slung a brotherly arm around him, trying not to make it obvious to the other that he was holding the other man up.

They stepped outside and Osferth packed away the threadbare tent behind them. Finan started shuffling wearily to his horse Aiofe, but Sihtric steered him towards the cart where Osferth’s stallion Higbald had been hitched. They’d found out a long time ago that Aoife had the temperament of her master and did not take kindly to the cart.

“I’m not an invalid, I can ride,” Finan grumbled.

“Really? And how are you going to mount her?”

Finan frowned like he was trying to figure it out, even though his arm still hung stiffly by his side and he clearly didn’t have the strength to get a foot in the stirrup.

“Just get in the cart brother,” Sihtric chided and he relented.

His mattress was laid down for him and he settled down on it without further complaint.

“You had us worried, you know,” Sihtric said quietly.

“I know brother, I’m sorry.”

They set off and started making as good time as the cart allowed. Sihtric enjoyed the times on the road when it was just the four of them, the gentle motion of his horse, Freja and the passing countryside calmed his restless spirits. He liked being up ahead, no army to keep in line with, no king to follow, just the wind in his hair and the scent of freedom in the air. Not so today though, today he could not shake a feeling of doubt, it was too soon to be moving. He hung back keeping an eye on the cart to look for any signs of discomfort from Finan. He had his eyes screwed shut in pain but refused all offers to stop, determined to push through it to get them home, even though he was the one person who had no one at home to go back to. Sihtric admired his stubbornness, but privately worried about him. The damage to his shoulder was extensive, it was possible, likely even, that he would not regain its full use. If Finan was unable to fight, where did that leave him?

They rode on long into the afternoon, and the path became more wooded. This did nothing to dissuade Sihtric of his bad feeling, indeed Uhtred and Osferth seemed to feel it too, it was too easy to be ambushed.

And then something flitted through the undergrowth in his periphery. He knew he was feeling paranoid enough that it could have been his imagination. But he also knew that there was a reason he felt that way and he hadn’t lived as long as he had without listening to those instincts.

“Finan, wake up!” He whispered harshly, steering his horse towards the front of the cart grabbing the reins of Higbald and halting him. He leapt to the ground and started unbuckling Highbald from the harness.

“What is it?” Uhtred asked, he and Osferth spinning back to face them. 

“We’re being followed. By Danes I think,” Sihtric said. “We’re going to have to outrun them.

Finan appeared from the back of the cart, his hair a mess and holding his arm tightly by his side. He looked pale and in pain, the fever not quite gone from him after all.

“There’s no time to saddle him,” Sihtric said of Higbald, “Take Freja, you’ll need something to hold onto.”

Finan nodded and grabbed Freja’s reins. “Hush girl,” he muttered when she snorted at him, “You’ll have Sihtric back soon enough.” And with a monumental effort that the others hadn’t thought him capable of, he gripped the saddle with one hand and swung himself up into.

“Still Finan the Agile, I see!” Uhtred said with a grin. “Now let’s go!”

He kicked his heels and spurred Magnus into a gallop, Osferth on Aoife right behind him. Sihtric waited until Finan was away before grabbing a handful of Higbald’s mane and leaping on, forcing his knees firmly into the stallion’s sides to spur him on and keep his balance. As soon as they set off there was a yell and an arrow thudded into a tree just beside him. Hooves pounded the dirt as they fled, Danish horsemen in their wake. They broke out of the forest and onto the grassy hills, with open ground ahead the horses could run faster, without fear of tripping over tree roots or running into trees. All four had been picked for their speed and their surefootedness but they’d been walking all day and were not fresh. They had to hope that the Danish horses had been too and that the weight of their riders in armour and with packs would slow them down. Uhtred and his men had left all but their weapons and armour on the cart.

They were reaching the top of the hill when Sihtric realised that Finan had fallen behind. There was no distance to speak of to fall behind to, the Danish men were almost upon then. He risked a glance over his shoulder and watched in horror as Finan, too weak to hold on, was bounced out of the saddle and then slid right off, hitting the ground and rolling out of sight. Freja barely seemed to notice, with the Danish at her back, she carried on running.

Sihtric fought the urge to turn around and get him, instead veering left up the hill to draw the path of the others lest the Irishman be trampled. “Arseling!” he yelled, hoping to get Uhtred’s attention without letting the Danes know who he was. It worked, and though neither, Uhtred nor Osferth knew the reasoning for the change in direction they trusted his judgement and changed their course. It took them back into the trees and almost immediately they were surrounded by ten men.

“Where’s Finan?” Uhtred asked as they came to a halt, struggling to rein in their beasts who knew the danger and just wanted to keep going.

Sihtric shook his head, “He fell.”

“There was one more,” the Danish leader confirmed to his men, “Bjorn and Leiv, go find him and kill him.” Two large tattooed warriors nodded and spun around back the way they came.

“So, this is the brave Uhtred Daneslayer I have heard so much about. I saw you run from battle and you are running again. It seems the stories are lies after all!”

“Then you have only seen what you wish to see,” it was quiet, meek Osferth that spat in anger. “Lord Uhtred fought bravely as ever, and killed the traitor Æthelwold, what more can be asked of him?” 

“I’m sure the Saxon stories will say so, but I wonder what they will say about me when I present Knut your head.”

“You are free to try to take it from me,” Uhtred said. “If you do, you should let my men go back to Wessex to tell of it. I am sure there will be more Saxons delighted to see me silenced then there will be to mourn me.”

“You will submit or it will be your men’s heads I take first.”

The Danish leader gave a flick of his hand and the man on his right drew his bow, aiming his arrow at Sihtric’s head.

But as soon as the bow was raised, another arrow flew out of the undergrowth and struck the archer through his ear. He slipped out of his saddle and crashed to the ground, dead immediately.

“Who the fuck was that?” the Danish leader growled. “The other bastard? Find him!”

There was rustling in the undergrowth and then another arrow was shot. This second went straight through the leader’s back and out through his abdomen. He started down it in absolute panic. The wound would be slow and deadly.

Sihtric’s heart leapt as he realised who it might be, though he could not understand how. There was not enough time to think on it, as he and his brothers raised their swords and charged. He raced at the nearest warrior and their steel clashed with jarring force. He swept the swords apart to try again, but again his blade was parried away. Try as he might, he could not draw blood and then a second man appeared at his side, brandishing an axe at his head. There was another thunk as an arrow pierced between this second man’s ribs, and then with a roar, Finan appeared, covered in blood, a seax in his hand. He drove the seax into the man’s side, leaving it buried to the hilt as he dragged him from his horse. In a frenzied attack, Finan wrenched the knife free and stabbed him over and over again. It gave Sihtric the opportunity he needed to finish his man.

And just like that, in less than a minute it was all over. Sihtric leapt from his horse and crashed to his knees in front of Finan who was still stabbing over and over but losing steam.

“Finan,” he grasped his shoulders and shook them. “Finan, he’s dead. You’ve saved us.” He had to grasp Finan’s bloodied hand to stop his waning attack. Uhtred and Osferth appeared by Sihtric’s side as Uhtred knelt with him.

“How did you manage a bow, but not a horse?” Uhtred asked with a smile. He pulled Finan’s tunic up and peered under the bandages. The wounds had finally hardened to big black scabs, but the effort of drawing a bow had left them cracked and bleeding again. He wrapped him in his arms and Finan collapsed against his shoulder in exhausted relief.

*  
“My Lord, you need to tell him to stop.”

Uhtred had become used to being interrupted by his abbess while was bathing. For a nun, she gave little thought to modesty.

He dipped his head beneath the surface of the river one last time and then stood and wrung the water from his hair. “Why should it be me? You were always fiercer than I?” 

He strode out of the river and Hild was stood on the dock holding out a rag to dry himself off with. He smiled at the former warrior and accepted her offering, towelling himself off before wrestling his damp legs into his breeches and pulling his tunic on.

“The man won’t listen to me.” Hild smiled fondly. That amused Uhtred, the woman could pretend to be annoyed, but she had a couple of soft spots for rough fighting men. “I had hoped you’d be able to distract him with an ale or two.”

“Only if you join us,” Uhtred negotiated, slinging his arm across the small woman’s shoulders. They walked into the centre of town where the clashing of steel indicated where Uhtred was needed.

“Come on! Don’t you treat me like a child! Fight me!”

They ventured to the square that had been marked out behind the armoury. Finan and Sihtric were clad only in their breeches, circling each other with shields and, thankfully, blunted swords. Often, the villagers would come to watch, a sparring match between two of the best fighters in all of England made for good entertainment, but today their audience had dwindled to a few. Both men looked exhausted, their muscular bodies sheeted in sweat but Finan was not allowing the other man to give up. Osferth was off to the side, holding a bag of herbs to a bruise that was blossoming on the side of his head, already defeated by the intense Irishman.

Uhtred watched as his best warriors danced around each other before their swords clashed furiously and then they started circling again. Osferth leaned into the space with his sword and tapped the bottom of Finan’s shield, reminding him to hitch it higher to keep himself properly protected, which he did with a grimace. The wound at his shoulder had left an angry red knot of scar tissue, adding to his collection. It was not yet fully healed, but as they clashed again and then Finan battered Sihtric back with his shield, it was clear it was almost there. 

“They’ve been at it for hours now, again. Lately it’s been every day.” Hild said.

“Great warriors are great because they train for hours. Or have you forgotten now you have laid down your sword?” Uhtred teased.

“Yes, but it causes him too much pain and then he spends the rest of the day as a grump, impossible to reason with. Last week he complained to me for an hour about the weather, getting increasingly blasphemous I might add. Yesterday he was so mean he made the poor stable boy cry.”

Uhtred frowned. The Irishman was rarely in a bad mood, but he had done the same thing when they had been released from slavery. They had both been so weak when they touched back on English soil that they could barely walk. Finan had accepted this weakness better than Uhtred had to begin with but by the time they started training to rebuild muscle and skill, they were both so regularly frustrated with their progress that they became hellish to be around. Hild had continued to care for them with stern but good-humour and Uhtred would forever feel guilty for the way he had treated her.

In the square, Finan had begun a frenzied attack on poor Sihtric, but no longer had the strength to carry it out. Sihtric looked like he no longer wished to play, Finan’s shield had lowered again and if he’d wanted to he had a clean shot to end it but not without battering the poor man’s ego.

“Finan!” Uhtred barked from the sideline. Sihtric stopped, expecting Finan to snap to attention but he was too focused on his fighting and as a result nearly took his head off. “Finan!”

“Yes Lord?”

The command had gotten through that time, though Hild was right, it was clear from his tone he was grumpy. He whispered his plan in Hild’s ear and then strode forward and slapped a hand down on Finan’s shoulder. “Come with me, I need your help with something.”

Finan looked about to protest, but then threw down his sword with a huff and allowed himself to be lead from the square.

“Your skill is improving,” Uhtred commented. “You will soon be as strong as you always were.”

“I’m not sure I’ll ever be,” Finan admitted. “There’s a numbness in my fingers that may never go away and if I cannot hold in a shield wall then I am no good to anyone as a fighter.”

Uhtred stopped him and made him face him, “Do you think that I would replace you, is that it? Because you must know I would not.”

“Perhaps you should. I will not allow my weaknesses to be the reason an arrow finds your heart.”

“You’ll always be one of my best fighters. Or have you forgotten how you saved us on the road home?”

Finan gave him a sad half-smile. “What did you need me for Lord?” he asked wearily, trying to change the subject.

They had wandered back down to the river, to the jetty beside Uhtred’s house. Uhtred guides the younger man out onto the planks and they looked down into the water. The sand had settled again after Uhtred’s earlier bath and the water was clear. Little fish darted round the weeds that grew on the wooden posts.

“Do they need replacing?” Finan asked, trying to understand why he’d been brought there. “They look alright to me, but I’m no carpenter, you should ask...”

Uhtred didn’t wait for him to finish before he shoved him, in hindsight a little harder than he needed. The Irishman’s arms wheeled through the air as he tried to regain his balance but it was hopeless and he crashed head first into the water with an almighty splash. For a moment, Uhtred worried he’d injured him but then he came up spluttering.

“What in the name of the Baby Jesus was that for?” Finan growled.

“You stink,” Uhtred responded with a laugh, making a show of being disgusted by the hand he’d laid on his friend’s sweaty, grimy skin. He picked up the soap he’s been using earlier and threw it.

“Yeah?” Finan growled, snatching the soap out of the air. He strode back towards the jetty, grabbed the hem of Uhtred’s tunic and pulled him in. 

Well that had been inevitable, Uhtred realised as he plunged under the cold water. He came up laughing, “If you wanted me to scrub your back, all you had to do was ask.”

Finan was still grumpy, he chopped his hand through the water so that it splashed Uhtred in the face. So Uhtred splashed him back. It did not seem to be helping but then a voice called as someone came down to meet them.

“Lord? Finan? Are you alright?”

Uhtred grinned and placed a finger on his lips to tell Finan to be quiet, ducking down into the water and hiding under the jetty. Despite his mood, Finan couldn’t help himself and he followed. They waited until the footsteps sounded on the boards above them before coordinating their attack, launching up and grabbing a leg each as they pulled Sihtric in with them, to the shout of, “The ale!”

Finan and Uhtred came up laughing, made funnier when Sihtric stumbled and then regained his footing to present the jug of ale and drinking horns he’d been holding, that were now full of river water.

“Ugh! I’m sorry Ale, I didn’t mean to be so cruel,” Finan exclaimed in mock dismay as he ignored Sihtric and peered forlornly into the jug.

“I’ll buy us another,” Uhtred smiled, just relieved to have his friend back.

“Good thing I bought two,” Osferth said from the river bank. He and Hild were wisely keeping their distance from the water, holding a second jug and the rest of the drinking horns. Sihtric snatched the jug back from Finan and set it back on the jetty before he dunked the man’s head under the water in punishment. Finan tackled him in retaliation, dragging him under but when they bobbed back up to the surface it was like the two of them had realised whose fault this nonsense really was and they turned on Uhtred.

By the time they had remembered there was ale and went to claim it, they were all laughing so uncontrollably it was hard to breathe. Hild chuckled and called them “children,” as she poured for them.

Sihtric grabbed his and made to drink greedily but Uhtred put a hand on his to stop him. He raised his horn in a toast and waited until the others followed suit.

“To my friends,” he said solemnly, “my brothers, and my sister,” he added with a smile. He turned to fix his eyes on Finan, who seemed to shrink away from the scrutiny. “Without whom I would be dead a thousand times over. Whatever bitter hand the gods see fit to deal us, may we always stay together. For we are strongest when we have each other. Skol!”

Shouts of “Skol!”, “Cheers!” and “Slianté!” rung out in response. Nothing could have wiped the grin off his face as Uhtred downed that ale and poured another.

*  
They spent all afternoon drinking on the grassy bank by the river. Uhtred and Sihtric had entered into that old Danish game of telling tales so outlandish your were never sure which were real, and Hild had a fair few wicked stories of her own, but for now Finan was content to sup his ale and listen, letting the sun warm his battered body. He hurt, a lot, perhaps he always would now, but he’d learn to live with it the same way he’d learned to live with everything else that had happened to him, with the help of his friends.


End file.
